


The Next Time

by MuseOnTheLoose



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-15 10:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MuseOnTheLoose/pseuds/MuseOnTheLoose





	The Next Time

Roger was up for the challenge, was excited about it even — playing 2012 Drew, a kinda sorta new character… new to him anyway. He watched Billy closely, picked up a few mannerisms, tried on an accent that somehow has a mind of its own, worked out every detail of the guy whose skin he’d be slipping into…

But the best part, he thought, would be watching Becky spread her wings. It often annoyed him how undervalued she was by the idiots in charge, how little imagination they had. Or maybe she was simply born too late. She would have made a stunning femme fatale in a smoky film noir, and sometimes he fantasizes that he’s Bogie to her Bacall, or John Garfield to her Lana Turner. He knows well the fires that rage beneath her regal bearing, the lewd thoughts that lurk behind that flawless face…

Or he did. Until they agreed last spring to stay away from each other for the sake of their families. Again. And they’ve been successful… mostly. Only one or two slips — and each time had been the last time. Until the next time.

She didn’t want to come to this fan event, but he’d talked her into it. They don’t know what this storyline means for the future of their characters, he’d said, and this might be their swan song, a final farewell to the loyal Frizzies. But the truth is, he knew her marriage was falling apart and she needed a distraction. 

No, the real truth is that he misses her. He was up for the challenge of a new role, but not for the distance it’s creating from Becky. He misses touching her, resents treating her with the cold indifference the story calls for, hates the pain and desperation in her eyes… even though it’s all pretend. She’s killing the material, just as he knew she would… but he misses loving her, in every way.

But he didn’t tell her that.

“You should do the event. It’ll be fun,” he’d said simply.

She’d given him a doubtful smile, said she’d think about it…

And she seems to be enjoying herself now, posing for pictures, laughing with fans, signing autographs. She’s wearing minimal make-up and her hair is natural and curly. He tries not to stare, but he loves it that way, pictures her stepping from the hotel shower during one of their trysts, gently towel-drying herself as he moves up behind her, takes her in his arms…

He breathes to ease the tightness in his chest, returns his attention to the woman at his side and smiles for her selfie… as genuine a smile as he can muster.

#

Becky notices Roger checking up on her and she gives him a playful nod. She’s glad he urged her to come, but is glad he’s staying relatively close. He always seems to be within reach when the crowd threatens to overwhelm her, has a joke or anecdote at the ready when she’s feeling tongue-tied. She sometimes wonders if people know, if the intimacy they share is visible, like an aura, like a bubble surrounding just the two of them… 

Fortunately, last year’s gossip about them petered out when another shiny object came along, and they’ve been careful ever since — _were_ careful, she reminds herself — especially during that brief period of passionate insanity when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, when no vehicle or closet or hotel room was safe from them…

But wiser heads had prevailed. Mostly. And it’s been fine. It’s been good to step back, to channel the sexual energy into their performances, to focus on developing a sort of equilibrium going forward….

But then he kissed Tamara, and all her equilibrium went to hell.

#

“Told you you’d have fun,” he murmurs into her hair. It’s group photo time and he’s behind her, his arms firm around her. She notices that no one else is touching, let alone embracing.

“Yeah yeah,” she says through a posed and practiced smile.

“Another one — look over here!” someone calls. They turn toward the voice as one organism, smile for the camera, keep smiling. He’s tall and strong behind her, his hands are huge on her waist, and memories flare — the slick heat of their rolling bodies… the mingling of soft, urgent groans… the aching _rightness_ of him moving inside her…

He tightens his embrace as though he knows what she’s thinking, rocks his hips lightly… a signal, so familiar, so irresistible…

“Did you ride?” she says, body growing warm, smile growing taut. People are everywhere — fans, coworkers, event staff — but her eyes are scanning the exits.

“Ride,” he repeats, as though drunk on the scent of her hair. 

“Your bike,” she says. “It’ll be dark by the time you’re done. I could come back for you.”

He jerks as though jolted awake. She feels his chest expand, then contract as a whoosh of air ruffles her hair.

“No,” he rasps, lips very near her ear. “Watch where I go. Wait a few minutes and follow me.”

He doesn’t pause for an answer and she sways, mouth dry as cotton as he abruptly lets her go and steps away. She quickly regains her poise, answers questions, graciously accepts compliments… all the while watching him from the corner of her eye. He’s moving through the crowd, relaxed and friendly… yet he steadily makes his way across the room and through an open door, never once glancing back at her.

# 

The sounds of the crowd grow fainter as Becky moves down the long, carpeted corridor. She’s breathless, heart pounding… but Roger is nowhere in sight. He must have slipped into one of the many doorways she's passing…

Or maybe he changed his mind.

She slows, stops, realizes how reckless this is and considers going back... when the door to her left abruptly opens. She sees him silhouetted in the frame for only a moment before he’s moving, sweeping her into a darkened room, shoving the door closed behind them. She has no time to get her bearings — he’s pushing her back against the wall, mouth crashing down on hers, hands grappling beneath her dress… and their need for each other is like a lit match to an oil slick — a mindless, uncontrollable eruption of flame as he grabs her ass, hoists her up his body. She wrestles his T-shirt over his head, flings it away with a cry, wraps her arms and legs around him and hangs on tight… 

He’s frantic but loving the feel of her, would like to take it slow as they get reacquainted after months apart, but his body has other ideas. He quickly gets his jeans open, shoves her skirt up around her waist and she watches his face with feral eyes as he positions himself.  It’s understood that there’s no time to take off her underwear — he jerks them aside with a growl — and then _God yeah_, she’s sinking down on him, engulfing him, shuddering, crying out, her fingers digging into his shoulders… 

It’s not slow, it’s not sweet or loving — they set a frenzied pace of raw need, of starvation, his hands clamped on her hips as he drives inside her, flesh slapping wet flesh, both of them gasping and straining… 

Suddenly he pulls her away from the wall and she feels herself moving through mid-air, turning… and then she’s on her back on a long table. She can make out a stack of notepads beside her, a herd of water bottles, a white board nearby, gray in the dim light, covered with scrawled writing and flow charts…

Then his eyes, glittering above her, eclipse everything. She can barely breathe, is transfixed by the intense pleasure on his face, the coiled tension in his body. He begins moving again, hard, driving her back and forth across the table as bottles fall and pens roll. He’s a fire of friction and pressure inside her, burning hotter with each stroke. And then his hand is between her legs, that thumb of his rubbing, hot eyes locked on hers… and within moments her hips are rising, body seizing and shattering in waves...

She wants to watch his face, loves seeing pleasure overtake him… but he shudders, thrusts, makes that harsh, strangled sound that cuts to her core… and then it’s all a blur, it all feels so good, so _perfect_ as she shatters again… 

When she comes down, she finds that he’s collapsed on top of her, panting, skin slick beneath her hands, heart pounding against her chest.  He lifts away and looks down at her, his eyes soft, almost worshipful,  cradles her head and  pulls her up for a slow kiss. She returns the kiss, deepens it, clasps her arms and legs around him, wanting nothing more in the world than to stay with him, just like this…

But the table is suddenly painfully hard, the room cold. She breaks the kiss, doesn’t meet his eyes as he rocks back and withdraws from her. She takes his hand, lets him help her off the table to her unsteady feet, and as they right their clothes, as she smooths down her skirt and hair with trembling fingers, she feels the pang of yet another ending. It always amazes her, grieves her, how quickly the glow fades and the world returns. 

“Are you sorry,” he says softly. “Because I’m not sorry.”

She steps close, leans up and brushes his lips with hers. But it’s not enough. She slides her arms around his neck, presses her body against his and gives him a proper kiss, a deep, sensual kiss that says, _I’m not sorry. And if things were different, we could have this, every day._

He doesn’t release her right away, lingers in the embrace, but eventually drops his arms and lets her step back. His eyes are sad as he lifts his hand and traces her collar bone with a gentle fingertip. 

“Until next time,” he says.

He’s not sure what she’ll say, whether that was inappropriate, a step too far. She gives him a slow, opaque smile as she turns and moves to the door, opens it and pauses, her hand resting on the knob.

“Until next time,” she says, and leaves, closing the door firmly behind her. 

He drops back against the table, heart in his throat… and begins anticipating the next time.

_ -End-  _


End file.
